


Youth

by seekingsquake



Series: Crash Into Me [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU-sort of, Alternate Timeline, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Bruce Banner runs away from his problems, Bruce and Tony meet before Hulk and Iron Man are things, F/M, Falling In Love, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Iron Man, Pre-The Incredible Hulk, Tony Stark pretends that he doesn't even have problems, Tony doesn't know how to deal with feelings, Tony's flying under the radar, Young Tony Stark, brief and vague mentions of drug use, but not if you're Canadian, goddamnit Bruce, mentions of child abuse, pre-avengers, song fic-sort of, technically I guess there's some illegal alcohol consumption, young Bruce Banner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2742467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingsquake/pseuds/seekingsquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Where we barely could survive, I was never more alive."</p><p>For maybe the first time in his twenty years of life, he didn't want anyone to know he was Tony Stark.<br/>He didn't want to be Tony Stark, but it wasn't the first time for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Youth

**Author's Note:**

> I've tagged this as sort of an AU only because I was dicking around with the timeline probably an excessive amount. Tony is twenty years old in 2014. The events of the Avengers take place in 2032. There may or may not be a sequel in the works.
> 
> I've never done anything quite like this before, and any constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated.
> 
> I am not affiliated with any of the writers or bands mentioned in this piece of work. I am not affiliated with Marvel. I am not even affiliated with any of the people who are affiliated with Marvel, Iron Man, Hulk, or the aforementioned writers or bands. I don't own anything except a Hulk plushie with an oddly shaped head.  
> Please do not repost or reupload this piece anywhere without consent. If you ask, I'm sure we can work something out :]

“California seemed to draw you like a siren

from a postcard

or a letter

or a frame of film melting.”

✧✧✧

When Tony enters the cafe, it’s late. Nearly two in the morning. He’s sporting almost a week’s worth of scruff, his hair is a mess, and there are dark shadows under his eyes. He’s in a pair of beat up jeans, stained and scuffed Converse sneakers, and a hoodie that practically swallows him whole. The last time the media focused on him he was clean shaven, well dressed, and grinning that playboy smile of his that he’d perfected when he was fifteen. He’s hoping that no one will recognize him now that he looks like a hobo. He can hardly recognize himself.

Maybe for the first time in his twenty years of life, he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s Tony Stark.

He doesn’t want to _be_ Tony Stark. But it isn’t the first time for that.

It’s a Tuesday night. Technically a Wednesday morning, but he doesn’t feel like being technical. He walks into the 24 hour cafe because he figures no one else will be there and he needs a place to go that doesn’t have Howard Stark or Obadiah Stane seeping right out from the atoms in the air. Now that Howard’s dead and Obie has decided to run Tony’s whole fucking life, it’s harder to find places that fit that criteria. He’s happy with the idea of this cafe.

He walks into the cafe because he figures it’ll be empty. He’s wrong. Tony isn’t used to being wrong. He’s irked, but he proceeds anyway because he doesn’t need to look like an idiot by taking two steps into the shop and then backing right out. He walks all the way in, shuffles to the counter, and orders a large black coffee with a triple shot of espresso and one of those cookies they keep in the display case that are really thin but actually the size of his face. The coffee will be mediocre, the cookie will be terrible, and he doesn’t give a shit.

He pays with cash because he doesn’t want anyone to see him with a Stark Industries credit card, doesn’t want to use or say or do anything that could alert anyone of his identity, and he takes his caffeine and sugar to a ripped up leather arm chair by the window. The coffee is better than he thought, the cookie is brittle but at least it still tastes like chocolate, and Tony is tired but refuses to sleep. Instead, he watches the reflection of the one other cafe patron in the window.

It’s a guy. Curly brown hair, big hands, glasses. He’s slumped on the couch that’s near the fireplace at the opposite end of the shop from Tony, one foot propped up on the little table in front of him, the other stretched out over the rest of the couch. As if he owned it. As if he was at home. He’s got a beat up MacBook balanced on his thigh, and Tony wants to snort because _Apple_. Stark Industries could make better laptops than that with their eyes closed. They actually do.

Not that this guy could afford one, probably. Shit, he can’t even afford a new MacBook. His is kinda big, kinda thick, not as sleek as the new models. It’s scuffed to shit and just looks _old_. Poor guy. Old MacBooks are definitely one of the shittiest things Tony can think of right now, which is saying a lot because his parents just died not too long ago.

Tony sips his coffee and stops looking at the MacBook, because he _does not_ want to think about whatever his brain is trying to make him think about. He stops focusing on the MacBook, but he keeps looking at the guy. He looks tired, probably about as tired as Tony feels. He’s got his sweater zipped up nearly to his throat, and it’s rumpled over his body in that way that sweaters get, where the zipper creates dips and valleys, waves that can’t be smoothed out until you stand up. His jeans are frayed around the cuffs like they drag on the ground when he walks and get caught under his heels when he stands, and he’s wearing these boots that look like they’d be pretty good for kicking the shit out of people. He’s got a cafe sandwich wrapped in brown paper resting on his chest as he leans back against the couch and tilts his head awkwardly to see the screen, and his chosen sitting position looks awfully uncomfortable.

He shifts and glances at his wrist, checking the time probably, which is weird because he’s got a computer _right in front of him_ , but then Tony checks the time too because it’s just one of those contagious actions, like yawning. And he realizes that his coffee’s cold and he’s been watching this random guy’s reflection for over twenty minutes. And that’s weird, because Tony can’t usually even sit still for twenty minutes, and that is a completely random guy who doesn’t even seem that interesting. And. He’s too far away for Tony to actually even know what this guy really looks like, beyond what he’s wearing and that he’s got long legs and brown hair. Seriously, this guy must be mostly leg because he sure doesn’t look very tall, but his legs go on for days.

And then the guy looks up. He looks up and right at the window, right at Tony’s reflection. And then his reflection and this other guy’s reflection are making eye contact and it’s actually really fucking weird but neither of them move and neither of them say anything and neither of them break the reflection-eye contact-staredown-thing they’ve got going on. Then, as if nothing at all happened, this guy just gathers his things, throws it all into the rattiest backpack Tony’s ever seen, and makes for the door. Like nothing happened. And Tony supposes nothing did happen, but for some reason that’s not what it feels like to him, so he gets up and follows.

He just up and follows this random guy. At quarter to three in the morning. In the middle of LA. Tony figures one of these days he’s going to be murdered just because he’s an idiot. Right now, he doesn’t really give a shit.

The guy is leaning against the wall of the next building down, a cigarette held limply between his fingers and smoke curling around his face. There’s a street lamp just to the right of him, but he’s just out of reach of it’s light. Tony stands there and looks at him for a moment before walking over and posting himself against the wall beside this guy. He has a brief flash of thought, just a simple, _what the hell am I doing?_ but then it’s gone because Tony doesn’t want to think. He wants to be and do and exist and not think.

“Are you trying to bum a smoke without actually asking?” The guy’s voice is soft, his words feel kind of round, and Tony is surprised. He expected this guy to sound sort of gruff for some reason, but he actually sounds more like a librarian or something.

“No. I don’t smoke.” Not cigarettes, anyway.

“Just looking for company, then?”

“You say that like you think I’m a prostitute. Do I look like a prostitute?”

His tone is bland when he says, “Maybe. A shitty one.”

Tony snorts, grins for what feels like the first time in days. It’s not, but it might be the first real one in days. “Well, I’m not. Shitty or otherwise.”

The guy nods, takes a drag of his smoke, and blows a perfect ring. He doesn’t say anything. Tony wonders if his brain would shut up if he just got fucked really good. Tony wonders what else this guy can do with his mouth, besides blow smoke rings. Tony purposefully doesn’t look at him.

The silence feels heavy, but not at all oppressive or awkward. It’s a little bit weird, because Tony doesn’t usually handle silence very well, but this is okay. His brain is quiet and the silence is okay, until suddenly his brain isn’t quiet anymore. “Did you want me to be a prostitute?”

The guy laughs, and it sounds surprised and rusty. “Honestly? I just wanted to know why you’re hanging around me without really saying anything. You’re the one that brought up prostitutes.”

“But did you think it?”

“Think what?”

“Did you think ‘if this guy is a prostitute, I should take the opportunity that has been presented to me’?” Tony doesn’t really know why he’s asking, or why he even wants to know, except that he’s always had a habit of putting his foot in his mouth and never figured out how to tell when he’s supposed to shut up.

There’s a long pause, and then the guy asks, slow and careful, “Are you trying to get me to take you home with me?”

Tony blinks. “No. I don’t know. Maybe. I think so?”

Silence descends over them again as the guy finishes his smoke, then drops the butt on the ground and crushes it under the toe of his boot. Then suddenly, quietly, he says, “Come on, then,” and takes off down the street.

Tony stands there, staring after this guy’s back for a minute before his body kicks into gear and he jogs to catch up. “I’m Tony, by the way,” he says once he reaches the guy’s shoulder.

He casts a glance at Tony before softly introducing himself. “Bruce.”

Bruce leads Tony three blocks east, past a dingy looking tattoo parlour and a seedy bar. Then he’s opening a rickety metal gate in front of a heavy looking door and leading Tony up three flights of stairs in the dirtiest looking walk-up he’s probably ever been in. When Bruce opens the door to what is supposed to apparently be an apartment, Tony’s confused. There’s a wall of floor to ceiling windows, but they’re dirty and definitely old. It’s a single room, relatively large but not at all glamourous, with a tiny kitchenette in the corner and a bathroom that looks like it’s been crammed into a closet. It’s cold, and the only furniture is a mattress right on the floor off to the side and a beat up stereo not too far from it.

Bruce drops his bag on the wood floor, and it makes a heavy thunk noise due to the MacBook. Tony flinches because you are one hundred percent not supposed to be so careless with electronics, even shitty MacBooks, but he doesn’t say anything. He watches Bruce pull two cans of beer from the fridge, and catches the one tossed to him. Budweiser. Not bad, considering. The light over the stove is flicked on, and Tony notices that there are no lights anywhere else except probably the bathroom.

It’s dark and dirty and _poor_. Not at all what Tony’s used to. But he looks around, and he thinks of the look he can imagine on Obie’s face if he were to ever be caught in a place like this with some random guy, and he kinda likes it. He kicks off his shoes and sits on the mattress, because even though his jeans are beat up, they did still cost him six hundred dollars, and he just watches as Bruce paces the space and sips his beer, his boots clomping away at the floor. “How long have you lived here?”

Bruce stops, turns to Tony, and doesn’t say anything. He lights up another cigarette and just keeps looking, and it’s the first time Tony really gets a look at his face. Big brown eyes, full lips that look totally chewed, square chin. He’s really very attractive, and it distracts Tony enough that he almost misses it when Bruce says, “Just a couple weeks.”

Well. That sure explains the lack of furniture. “Where did you live before?”

“Virginia.”

“You’re a long way from home then, huh?”

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a while, smoke just curling around him. His body, which had been loose and relaxed, is now visibly tense. “Yeah.” His voice is strained, and then he isn’t looking at Tony anymore, isn’t looking at anything at all. He turns to the windows, and he’s silhouetted in the dark, and Tony wants him. He doesn’t move from the mattress though, just watches to see what Bruce will do.

After what feels like a small eternity, Bruce snubs his smoke out on the floor and moves to the mattress, sits at the edge and unlaces his boots slowly. He doesn’t look up, but he almost whispers, “Do you make a habit of following strangers home?”

Tony grins. “Usually the strangers are following me, but you gotta shake it up once in a while, ya know?”

Bruce shrugs. “I think it’s generally safer for someone to be on home turf.”

“But you’re not really on ‘home turf’ here, are you? I mean, it doesn’t even really look like anyone lives here. You’ve been here a couple weeks, but it doesn’t feel like it. You’re not here very often, are you?”

“Guess not.” Bruce flops so he’s lying down on his back. He doesn’t move to touch Tony at all, still doesn’t look at him, and Tony figures if there was anywhere else to lounge that’s where Bruce would be. Nothing about this encounter is sexy or heated or at all arousing, and it doesn’t look like Bruce is planning on any sex happening tonight. Tony doesn’t even know why he’s here, except that he doesn’t want to leave.

“Bruce?”

Bruce doesn’t reply, but he rolls onto his side and curls up a little, his body almost sort of loosely fencing Tony in. His glasses are skewed on his face and when he looks up, Tony can see how long his lashes are. “Hm?”

“Why did you bring me here?”

The breath that Bruce pulls is nearly a stutter, something short and shaky, and it sounds like it might devolve into a cough. It doesn’t, but it’s probably a near thing. “I’m just tired.”

Tony nods. “Okay. Do you want me to go?”

It’s nearly a mumble when Bruce says, “Do you want to go?”

“No.”

“Then no. There’s more beer in the fridge if you want.” Then Bruce is pulling his glasses from his face and dropping them carelessly over the side of the mattress, pillowing his head on his arm, and closing his eyes. He falls asleep like that in under two minutes, curled around Tony but still not touching.

Tony doesn’t know this guy. Knows his first name and now his address, but doesn’t know anything about him at all. Except... Tony knows loneliness. Tony knows being surrounded by people and being utterly alone, knows snorting a laugh even when the eyes above the grin are empty, knows having beers in the fridge that you drink through too fast and smokes that never really leave your lips. Tony was raised on loneliness, his parents not ever being able to give him anything but it and money. His mother had empty eyes and lips that curled into coy smiles around cigarettes. He’s eaten a big bowl of ‘all alone’ for breakfast since he was seven and his dad disappeared into the company. Tony doesn’t know anything about Bruce at all except that it looks like he breathes loneliness about as much as he breathes oxygen.

He hunkers down on the bed, making his body small to fit in the circle of Bruce’s, and he twines his fingers into the other’s dark curls. He doesn’t know anything about Bruce.

But he wants to.

✧✧✧

Bruce wakes with a start around four thirty Wednesday morning. His whole body jerks, there’s a noise caught in the back of his throat that’s somewhere between a whimper and a scream, and his jeans are plastered to his thighs with sweat. He’s sitting up, gasping, cradling his head in shaking hands before he registers the body on the bed beside him.

Tony is looking at him, wide eyed and wide awake. It seems like the natural thing for him to do to sit up and wrap his arms around Bruce, draw him against his chest and hold him there until the shaking stops. Bruce tenses under his touch though, and he’s about to back off because, yeah, oops, you shouldn’t touch people without their permission, but then Bruce is relaxing against him, pressing his face against Tony’s neck, and shuddering breaths that dance across his skin. “Are you okay?”

The smaller man nods, his hair tickling under Tony’s jaw, and he just rests there for a moment before pulling away. “Are you hungry?”

Tony isn’t, really isn’t, but he figures that Bruce is asking because either a) _he_ is hungry, b) he needs something to do, or c) all of the above, so Tony just sort of bobs his head and says, “Sure.”

Bruce wanders into the kitchen corner and opens the fridge. Tony can see that it’s completely empty aside from the case of beer and a bottle of mustard. Bruce stares inside for a pretty long time, his shoulders tight with tension under the thin fabric of his sweater, before swinging the door shut and advancing on the cupboards. He rummages around for a good few minutes before slumping over his tiny countertop in utter defeat. “Apparently all I have is a couple packs of Mr. Noodles.”

“What the fuck is Mr. Noodles?”

“Uh. Instant noodles. I think it’s a Canadian brand.”

Tony stares at the back of Bruce’s head. “Why the hell do you have Canadian instant noodles? You know you can buy that shit here, right?”

“Well, yeah. My gir- Someone brought them back for me after they visited some relatives in Toronto. As a joke. It’s sort of a running thing that I can’t take care of myself, so.”

“Well, seems pretty accurate since you don’t have any food. Or anything. You don’t have anything.” It’s maybe a harsh statement, but it’s true, and Tony doesn’t mean any offence by it. He actually kinda likes it. It’s very different from what he grew up with, from what he’ll be surrounded with as soon as he makes his way back home.

Bruce snorts. “Guess so. You up for a Mr. Noodle breakfast, or do you want to go pick something up?”

“Isn’t a breakfast date a little premature, since we haven’t had sex yet?”

The burst of laughter from Bruce is still rusty like it was outside the cafe, but it sounds a little better, a little warmer. “You’re mouthy, aren’t you? Fine, Mr. Noodles it is. I like how you’re operating under the assumption that we’ll be having sex at some point.”

“Are you saying that we won’t be having sex at some point?” Bruce stills, and Tony has the distinct impression that this is one of those times where he should have shut up but didn’t know it until it was too late. “I mean. Obviously we don’t have to have sex. You haven’t even acted like you’re interested in having sex. But you invited me up here and I just thought that meant you were planning on getting to the sex at some point because that’s generally what happens when... But we don’t have to have sex. I’m good with instant noodles and no sex. That’s-,”

“You should probably shut up now.”

So Tony shuts his mouth. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, whether Bruce is mad or offended or _what_ , but he shuts his mouth and waits for Bruce to say something. But he doesn’t. He just pulls out one of the tiniest pots Tony’s ever seen, fills it with water, and crushes a couple of noodle packets against the counter without opening them. Then he just stands there. The silence, this time, is uncomfortable, but Tony doesn’t know how to fix it. His eyes scan the apartment for something, anything he can focus on, and they land on the little stereo. He only pauses for a second before he crawls over to it. “Bruce, buddy, where do you keep your iPod or whatever. I wanna hook this baby up, get some music goin' in here.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Okay, well what’ve you got then? A Sony player or some shit?”

“No. I don’t have any sort of mp3 player.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters as he looks up and at Bruce. “What, are you from 2002 or something?”

“There’s already a CD in the tray, just hit the big button to turn it on, then press play.”

Tony follows the instructions because, contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually throw a fit every time someone tells him what to do. The first few beats are quiet, with only a gentle static coming from the speakers, and then there’s an old Counting Crows song spilling into the silence around them as Bruce finally dumps the noodles into the water. Bruce continues to clink around softly in the kitchen, leaving Tony to sit on the floor with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the city outside, the sounds of a song about suicide, the sounds of a man he doesn’t really know. “Is this a mix CD?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s probably the saddest way to start a set. I mean, really? This is what you want to hear first thing in the morning?”

Finally Bruce turns to him, and when Tony opens his eyes Bruce is staring at him as if he’s trying to crawl under Tony’s skin with just his gaze. He says, “Have you ever heard a song that felt like it belonged in your blood? That felt like the words had been written on your bones, and the melody had been buried in your vocal chords, that felt like they ripped it out of your being and gave it back to you so that you could discover it before you even knew you were missing it?”

Tony thinks long and hard about that question because Bruce is so serious, so still and quiet but very obviously on the edge of something messy and broken. He thinks, and he comes to his conclusion, and he doesn’t want to admit it but he feels the desperate need to be honest. “No.”

Bruce nods, resigned, like he expected that answer. It’s barely a whisper when he says, “That CD. That’s who I am.” Then he turns back to the stovetop, fussing over the noodles as if he could somehow fuck them up.

Tony doesn’t think before restarting the CD and listening to that first song again very carefully.

✧✧✧

“So, what made you come to LA?” Tony’s licking the last of the broth from his lips when he asks, and Bruce is stretched out on the mattress beside him, his bowl long forgotten. He’s taken off his sweater and his socks, and now he’s barefoot in his jeans and a soft gray henley.

He looks up at Tony through his lashes when he questions, “Have you ever felt like everyone you know was trying to live your life for you? Like, you have all these options or choices or decisions or whatever, and it’s your job to pick because it’s your life, right, but everyone you know has decided that it’s their job to pick for you?”

Tony thinks of Obie, thinks of Howard, thinks that maybe he’s never made a decision for himself in his whole life. He says, “Yeah.”

Bruce sighs, and Tony thinks maybe that’s all he wanted to say, but then he murmurs, “I was tired of my girlfriend trying to make those decisions for me. I was tired of my mentors trying to make those decisions for me, and my aunt, and my friends. And I got to feeling like if I didn’t assert myself right now, if I let them tell me where to go and what to do, I’d lose... Everything. My freedom, my autonomy as a person, my, my dreams. It felt like I needed to do something, and I needed to do it right now or I’d lose my chance. And then I saw a poster of the Hollywood sign and I thought, you know, _why not?_ ” He pauses, wets his lips, laces his fingers together under his head. He almost whispers, “I think this is the first thing I’ve ever given myself. I’m twenty one years old, and this is the first time I’ve ever just taken without asking someone first.”

Tony stretches himself out beside Bruce on the bed, tangling their feet together to keep warm, and lets his fingers sink into the other man’s curls again. “That’s... Really brave, Bruce. What did they all say when you told them you were leaving?”

“I... Didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell them I was leaving until I had already left.”

They stare for a few moments, Tony right at Bruce, Bruce at some spot over Tony’s shoulder. He’s got this aversion to eye contact or something, Tony’s noticed, and he wonders where that comes from. Ever since he was a little kid, his parents taught him that eye contact was an important part of social interaction and he’s learned over the years that he can get pretty much anything (or anyone) he wants if he uses it right. Bruce apparently never learned that, and it kind of makes him seem like he’d rather be anywhere else. Tony doesn’t like that much, and to draw attention back to himself he flings his arm over Bruce’s waist and drags him closer. There’s only a couple inches of space between their chests and hips, and even less space than that between their faces. Bruce is looking right into his eyes now, and there’s a little wrinkle between his brows when he furrows them, and his lips are twisted into some sort of confused pout. Tony wants to kiss him, be inside him, be underneath him, be all over him. He moves in to make that leap, claim those lips, when suddenly there’s the blair of a cell phone ringing and Bruce’s whole body jolts.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and he crawls off the bed and fumbles around in his bag. When he finally finds his phone, he heads to the bathroom to have his conversation in private. Tony can hear the murmur of his voice through the door, but can’t make out any of the words. He tries not to speculate about who it is that’s calling. Bruce talked very vaguely of a lot of people- friends, family, mentors, _girlfriends_ \- but Tony for some reason has this possessive feeling all hot in his chest, this feeling like none of them should be calling because they all let Bruce down already.

He tries to push it out because that’s stupid. He doesn’t know this guy at all, doesn’t really know how those people treated him. But that CD is still playing, that CD that is apparently Bruce in music, and every song is sad and lonely and speaks of an emptiness that makes Tony ache when he thinks about it. And he knows that there’s something wrong if Bruce is surrounded by people who are supposed to love him and all he can feel is ‘I’ve lost it all, I’m a silhouette, I’m a lifeless face that you’ll soon forget.’ He wonders how he can listen to this collection of songs and tell himself that he _doesn’t_ know Bruce.

The bathroom door opens and Bruce is back on the mattress, huddling against Tony, trembling and clutching at Tony’s hoodie. And Tony, he just wants to be closer, wants to feel Bruce as much as he can, so he pulls the hoodie over his head and holds Bruce against him. His t-shirt is thin and he can feel Bruce shaking through the fabric of both their shirts, can feel it almost like it’s skin on skin. “Do you want to, you know, talk about it?”

And Bruce shakes his head, but his voice is choked when he says, “She told me not to come home.” His words are muffled by Tony’s chest, but Tony makes them out anyway.

“Who? Your girl?”

Bruce makes this noise that’s something between a growl and a whine, and he’s so close that it’s like he’s trying to burrow into Tony’s skin, and he sounds nearly hysterical when he repeats, “She told me not to come home.”

Tony has never been in love before, and he has no idea if Bruce and this girl had been in love with each other, but he remembers being at MIT and thinking he was in love, and he remembers being devastated when she left, and he can’t image what it must feel like to have somebody you trusted tell you to not bother coming back.

“I-I-I, I don’t. I. I left Harvard for her. I picked Culver over CalTech and NYU and MIT for her. I. I just needed to clear my head, I needed some space, I needed to know what I wanted because ever since we met I’ve just done what she wanted. I. I was never gonna be. Good enough for her. Was I? I just. I.”

“Shh,” Tony soothed, his hands keeping Bruce close and rubbing circles into his shoulder blades. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re gonna be- Wait. You left _Harvard_ to go to some random school in Virginia that I’ve never even heard of? For a girl? You left an I _vy League_ school to go to _Virginia_? You turned down CalTech and MIT? Bruce. Whoa. Bruce, Buddy, look at me, okay? Look at me for a sec here.” He tilts Bruce’s face up and away from his chest, and he practically feels his heart clench when he sees Bruce’s red rimmed eyes and lashes full of tears. He’s obviously trying to fight off crying, which is making it all worse. “Bruce. Those are all great schools. Fantastic schools. You must be fucking brilliant if all of those schools were viable options for you. The fact that she didn’t push you to go somewhere worthwhile like that, the fact that she let you leave _Harvard_... She wasn’t looking out for you, Buddy. She didn’t want what was best for you. You musta loved her so much to do that, but she didn’t love you the same way if she let you do it. Bruce.”

And Bruce laughs. It’s wet and ruined, but it’s an honest to God laugh. “I’m so stupid.” He’s wiping his face and curling up against Tony, resting his head right under Tony’s chin. “I mean, it sounds so fucking stupid, right? You’re right. I left Harvard for a girl. It was a short sighted and poorly thought out decision, and it would have disappointed my mother, and I shouldn’t have done it. But I just thought. Sometimes you have to sacrifice something you want to gain anything.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, just holds Bruce impossibly closer. It’s almost six AM, and the dawn light is just starting to brighten up the room. It’s still not warm, and Tony isn’t sure Bruce’s apartment even has the ability to _be_ warm, but he figures if they stay in bed it won’t matter. “Do you have curtains?”

“What?”

“Do you have curtains? Because I’m thinking we can just hang out here in the dark all day and eat shitty food and maybe have sex so we don’t have to confront our inner demons. Also, my sleep schedule is fucked and I don’t want to admit that it’s daytime.”

Bruce doesn’t respond to that, just gets up and disappears into the bathroom. Tony can hear him rummaging around, and then he’s back with his arms laden down with towels, sheets, and blankets. “C’mon, then,” he says as he heads to the window wall and begins draping the fabrics over the curtain rod. “You want it dark, you better help me out.”

It doesn’t look like it’s going to be a bright day, the clouds are a dark mass of grey in the sky and there’s a strong wind that almost definitely belies rain, but Tony grins and he hangs up a quilt. He’s used to telling people what to do, used to making a suggestion and having it implemented with little to no hesitation. He’s Tony Stark, and Tony Stark always gets what he wants. But he’s pleased, because Bruce doesn’t know that. Bruce doesn’t know who he is, has no reason to try to suck up to him or impress him, and yet here he is, hanging the contents of his linen closet up in his living room just because Tony didn’t want to see the daylight. Warmth spreads through him because Bruce didn’t do it for Tony Stark. Bruce just did it for _Tony_.

When everything’s up and the room is cloaked in darkness, the CD playing on repeat softly in the background, Bruce begins to dig through one of the kitchen drawers.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just thinking,” Bruce responds distractedly, still searching, “I’m pretty sure I’ve got some candles hanging around here somewhere.”

✧✧✧

There’s the boom of thunder, and the light over the stove flickered out a while ago. There are little tea light candles lit in all corners of the room, in the doorway of the bathroom, on top of the microwave, and on one of the speakers of the stereo. It’s very bohemian, very romantic, and Tony didn’t know people actually did things this. Bruce is lying on his back on the floor, mouthing along to U2, but he’s got his face turned to Tony, who is on his stomach on the mattress, just watching Bruce watch him.

Tony’s been in Bruce’s apartment for just under six hours, but he feels like he’s spent a lifetime breathing Bruce in. He feels like he’s somehow soaked Bruce right out of the air and into himself, and it’s very weird and yet somehow very comforting.

It’s raining heavily outside, the wind literally howling. Tony isn’t planning on going home any time soon. Bruce’s face is soft, relaxed. His lips are moving, but they’re pulled into a tiny, lopsided sort of grin whenever he looks over. “Do you even know any of these songs?”

Tony snorts. “Enough to know that you, my friend, are stuck in the ‘90’s.”

When Bruce laughs, it lights something up inside him. “Okay, that’s just not true. With or Without You is 1987.”

“Yeah, okay, but the vast majority of this CD is ‘90’s. And, like, rock music was killer in the ‘80’s, so I don’t know why you majorly skipped that decade.”

“Clearly we don’t quite have the same tastes. You listen to, what? AC/DC? Led Zeppelin? And you play it loud enough to shake the windows, right?” Bruce rolls across the floor so that he’s closer to Tony before continuing, “I bet you really like to rock out. Jump around and air guitar when you’re alone in your room, roll all the windows down and drive too fast if you hear something you like on the radio. That’s cool. You’re a screamer; you like to emit. The ‘80’s were good at that. Suits you. I’m an absorber; I take things in and hold them close, and I keep myself tamped down. A lot of easily absorbable music was released in the ‘90’s.”

Tony doesn’t say anything about that, just lets the idea roll around in his brain a little before he nods because, yeah, Bruce pretty much hit it right on the head there. He is a screamer, an emitter, a show-don’t-tell kinda guy. And Bruce, clearly, isn’t. Probably wouldn’t know how to be. And then, while Tony’s thinking about it and before he can convince himself to not, he leans over the edge of the mattress and kisses his companion.

It isn’t hard or deep or fast like a usual Tony kiss. It isn’t an exploration of tongues or tonsils. It’s soft, chaste, and he isn’t sure he’s actually ever kissed someone like that before. Bruce angles himself up, tries to get closer without moving too much, and returns the kiss with a tenderness that both confuses and elates him. Confuses, because it’s been a very long time since somebody handled Tony gently, and elates because _wow_ , nothing is even happening but he feels all giddy and tingly and calm. Kissing Bruce, apparently, is kind of like smoking a joint. Tony wants to laugh, but instead kisses Bruce again before dragging him up onto the mattress.

It doesn’t progress anywhere beyond an abundance of little kisses and Tony dragging his fingers through Bruce’s hair because, unlike what all his exes will tell you, Tony does know when to respect boundaries. Bruce hasn’t said that he doesn’t want to go any farther, but Tony’s been blatant about his interests from the start and nothing’s happened at all until now, and the guy just had his heart broken, so. Not pushing. Bruce curls himself into Tony’s arms, caresses his lips like he’s cherishing them, and Tony’s decided that he kind of wants to drown in this man. He thinks that if his mother was still around and if she’d still had the ability to actually like people, she would have liked Bruce.

His breath catches in his throat and he pulls away slightly, blinks back the sudden tears that are trying to form in his eyes. It’s the first time he’s thought about his mother, really thought about her, since her death.

“Tony?”

Tony just shakes his head and pulls Bruce back in, kisses him on the edge of his jaw just under his ear, and pretends that the moment didn’t happen. Bruce lets it go, lets himself be kissed, and strokes Tony’s side almost absently.

✧✧✧

Tony wakes up with a groan to the feel of a hand low on his abdomen under his shirt and warm breath puffing against his cheek. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he doesn’t know how he ended up as the little spoon in this arrangement when he clearly recalls being the big spoon earlier.

“Are you awake?” Bruce’s voice is soft in Tony’s ear, and he presses back against the other man’s chest before nodding. “It’s almost three. Do you want to go get lunch?”

When he stretches, Tony is careful not to let any of his limbs jostle Bruce too much before he rolls over to look at his face. There are dark circles under Bruce’s eyes, so vivid and purple that it almost looks like he’s been punched in the face. His lips are chapped to the point they almost look painful, and he’s so thin that Tony can’t decide if he’s sick or not. But there’s still something about him, something soft and vulnerable but simultaneously inherently strong that has Tony drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Bruce looks like a tired, worn out, beloved daydream. “Food sounds good.”

“There’s this bar down at 3rd and San Vicente. The bartender has good taste in music and the food’s okay.”

“Sure,” Tony agrees as he pushes himself up until he’s standing in the middle of the room. “But I don’t have any other clothes, and I’ve been wearing this hobo ensemble since Monday.”

Bruce nods solemnly, but the mood is broken by the fact that Tony can see him fighting a grin. “Well. It’s a good thing I have some clothes that should fit you.” Bruce moves from the bed to a small stack of cardboard boxes that are all open and haphazardly piled in the corner of the room farthest from the kitchen nook. He pulls out an old leather jacket that’s thin in the elbows and a deep blue t-shirt with a v-neck. He tosses both items to Tony, and then strips out of his jeans and throws those over as well before diving back into the box.

Tony dresses himself, first slipping into Bruce’s pants, then pulling on the t-shirt and sliding into the jacket, his eyes on Bruce the whole time. He’s pulled for himself a pair of olive green chinos and a vest that’s a few shades of grey darker than his shirt and has leather pockets. He slips back into his boots, and Tony doesn’t know how he manages to both look like a nerd and like he could kick the shit out of someone. Bruce pats down his pockets before nodding to himself and lighting a smoke, then brushes past Tony and exits into the building’s hall.

“I’m surprised they let you smoke inside.”

Bruce shrugs as he goes down the stairs to the street, then says, “The place is a shithole. There aren’t even any smoke alarms.”

The walk to the bar is silent, but they walk close enough together that Tony could slip his hand into the pocket of Bruce’s vest if he wanted to. He doesn’t do it, but he thinks about it. The rain has stopped, but the ground is still dark with water and the air is thick, like it could start up again at any moment. Bruce stares straight ahead as they walk, his cigarette dangling almost precariously from his lips and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Tony steals glances at him out of the corner of his eye and wonders if the paparazzi will notice him. He sure as hell hopes not. He wonders if Obie has noticed that he’s not been at the Malibu house like he said he’d be. Nobody’s called to check on him, so he guesses not.

He’s caught off guard when Bruce suddenly stomps out his smoke and veers off into a door on their left. He follows, and enters into a dimly lit bar. It’s empty except for a beefy guy behind the bar, and it smells like smoke even though no one is smoking. The guy nods over at them as Bruce makes himself at home in a booth off to the side, his back to the door and the bartender in his line of sight. It’s a small place, and the guy doesn’t even move from his spot as he calls over, “The usual?” Bruce nods, and then the guy asks, “And your friend?”

Bruce eyes Tony expectantly, but when Tony only shrugs he says, “Bring him the Pale Ale.” Then he lowers his voice for Tony’s ears only and asks, almost shy all of a sudden, “That alright?”

Tony just grins because this shy thing is kind of cute, then nods when it looks like Bruce might actually be nervous. Tony himself is a little nervous, because his ID says he’s both Tony Stark and a year too young to be in this bar, but the bartender comes with their drinks then, and as he places them down he asks Bruce, “Stereo?” and doesn’t even glance in Tony’s direction.

“Something current. Apparently I’m stuck in the ‘90’s.” His eyes on Tony are playful but there’s a slow building heat there, and he’s fighting for a serious expression even as his lips attempt to quirk into a grin.

It isn’t too long after that that a CD starts playing over the speakers, and the bartender calls, “This was released this year. Can’t get much more current than that,” and both Tony and Bruce chuckle.

Bruce seems to know the album, as he hums along under his breath and sips his drink. His eyes flicker all over the place before settling on Tony. “Do you know this?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “No. But it’s not bad. You gonna tell me who it is?”

Bruce smiles around the rim of his bottle, then sings along very quietly, “ _A body like a punching bag/ you know you never stood a chance/ on your own._ ” He finishes the song and bleeds right on into the next, almost too quiet to hear but in a beautiful, raspy tenor. “ _We’ve got a head first kind of love/ all the way/ you take me all the way._ ”

By the time Bruce’s regular food order comes, excessively cheesy nachos with a ridiculous amount of olives, Tony has fallen a little bit in love with Bruce’s voice. By the time they’re half way through the nachos, he’s fallen a little bit in love with the way Bruce sucks the grease off his fingers and the way he’ll steal the fallen olives right off Tony’s plate. And by the time they’re leaving the bar, Tony’s in the middle of convincing himself that he isn’t a little bit in love with _Bruce_. He tells himself that it’s only been twelve hours and that he’s slept through maybe three of them, but none of that matters to him as much as the fact that he can’t remember ever feeling so comfortable with someone so instantly.

When they’re in the hall just outside Bruce’s apartment, Tony crowds him up against the wall and kisses him, hard but close mouthed. Bruce freezes under his touch for only a moment before pulling Tony closer against him by the zipper of his jacket. Before Tony can push it any farther, there are footsteps coming up the stairs and Bruce has opened his door, half tumbling into the apartment and dragging Tony in with him. He kicks the door closed as he continues to stumble, landing in a heap on the mattress with Tony draped on top of him. He tries to hide a giggle in Tony’s mouth as he leans up to kiss him again, but he’s smiling too much for Tony to kiss him properly. Instead, Tony just rests his head on Bruce’s chest and feels the laughter rattle through Bruce’s ribcage more than he hears it.

✧✧✧

“You’d look good with a goatee.”

They’re both sitting cross-legged, their knees touching and facing each other. It’s a thumb war to end all thumb wars, and Tony is trying _really hard_ not to lose. They’ve played for probably twenty minutes by this point, and he’s lost every single time. He has no idea why Bruce has such a dexterous thumb. “What?”

Bruce is watching Tony’s face instead of his thumb, and he’s almost too serious when he repeats, “You’d look good with a goatee. Your current facial hair is a little... um...,”

“Homeless?” Tony’s concentrating really hard, but Bruce still almost manages to pin his thumb down.

“Well. I was going to say ‘unkempt’, but homeless is really it. If you cleaned it up though, I bet you’d look really handsome.” He rotates his thumb quickly and suddenly, and he’s beaten Tony again. He grins triumphantly even as he says, “You lasted a lot longer this time. If we keep going, I bet you’d beat me eventually.”

Tony groans and pulls his hand back. “How about no?” Then he scrubs at the scruff on his face. “A goatee, huh?”

Bruce nods solemnly, then darts forward and brushes a quick kiss against Tony’s thoughtful frown. It’s nothing but a barely there press of his lips, but it jars Tony out of his head and he grins. That mix CD is still playing in the background and Tony almost wonders if they’ll wear it down keeping it on repeat like this, but he’s enjoying it too much to suggest changing it.

The candles had all burned out and been re-lit a while ago. The sun’d gone down maybe an hour back and they’d just been hanging out in the dim, flickering light ever since. It’s been spitting rain on and off since the morning, and Tony’s been ready to crawl under Bruce’s skin since the second time he heard the first track of Bruce’s mix. And now, as Bruce leans against him all warm and content and grinning, Tony wants even more than that. It’s crazy, absolutely nuts, but he sort of wants to move in. He wants to make Bruce his own, and to make being the heir to Stark Industries not mean anything, and to live in this dingy, empty apartment as if it was an empire.

Tony has never believed in romance. To him, all romance was was a way to show off how wealthy you were, a way to show the press that you were a good husband. Romance was for cameras and magazines, romance was a sham. But the rain is beating against the windows, the candles are flickering, and Tony can almost taste Bruce’s smile. He thinks, _there’s nobody here to be impressed_ , and so when the first few notes of Hallelujah ring out, he doesn’t stop himself from leading Bruce to his feet and fitting the shorter man against him.

“What are you doing?” Bruce is clearly a little confused and a little amused, but Tony forgoes answering him. Instead he wraps an arm around his waist and clasps his hand, then sways them slowly around the room. Bruce is nearly but not quite eye level with Tony, and his face is soft, full of wonder as it all sort of clicks for him. Tony’s eyes are closed, like he can’t bear to open them for fear of opening them into loneliness, but he feels as Bruce lays his head down on his shoulder, his face pressed against Tony’s neck.

Tony can barely breathe as he whispers into Bruce’s hair, “She made a mistake. If you were mine, I’d’ve never let you go.” He feels Bruce’s breath puff over his skin as he sings along with the choir, and he feels the fine trembles running through Bruce’s body as if they were his own. He pulls Bruce even closer, but on his next rotation of the room his foot catches the side of the mattress and he can’t right himself before both he and Bruce topple over.

He lands with Bruce on his back underneath him, their legs tangled together, and all of a sudden he’s looking into Bruce’s eyes and fucking drowning. And Bruce, Bruce leans up and kisses him and it’s soft but completely searing, and suddenly it’s like they’ve melded together and Tony will never get his lips or his breath back. There’s this burning between them, and it’s desperate but not frantic. Each kiss, each touch is purposeful, each breath pulled is a quiet gasp, each exhale a soft sigh, and Tony feels like he’s touching something for the first time that he’s been waiting for his whole life. His need has never felt like this before, never felt like each atom that made him was being split apart and the spaces were just waiting to be filled by the atoms that made up his partner. Bruce has pretty much cleaved himself right to Tony, his hands tangling in Tony’s hair, one leg wrapped around Tony’s hip and the other locked around one of Tony’s calves. Tony doesn’t want to move from his spot between Bruce’s legs ever, doesn’t even want to have sex if it means that he has to leave the cradle of Bruce’s body for even a moment. But then Bruce’s hands are grasping at him, and Bruce’s voice is ruined as he begs, “I need you closer. I need you closer, God, please,” and Tony thinks he might very well die if he doesn’t feel Bruce’s skin.

When he pulls back, it’s only enough to wiggle out of Bruce’s t-shirt and to peel the henley off Bruce. And if Tony thought Bruce was attractive before? His dark chest hair and lean abdomen draw Tony in like a magnet, and his hands couldn’t be stopped from roaming over the soft, sensitive skin that he’s uncovered. Bruce’s muscles jump and twitch under his fingers, and the low groan that spills from his lips when Tony attaches himself to his collarbone is the best thing Tony has ever heard.

But Bruce is no passive participant. His hands snake from Tony’s hair down his neck and back to make themselves at home on Tony’s ass, grasping and pulling him impossibly closer. They rock against each other slowly, tightly, pressed so close that there’s hardly even any air between them and even then it’s not enough. “I need you,” Tony breathes softly, “out,” his hands fumbling clumsily between them, “of these pants.”

Bruce groans and laughs as he lifts his hips and squirms, trying to shed the rest of his clothes while still pressing tight against Tony. It’s impractical, impossible even, and they only get so far as halfway down his hips before Tony completely pins him back down. Bruce is still smiling as he murmurs, “They don’t seem very removed to me,” and what can only be described as a shriek of laughter is pulled from him as Tony attacks his ribs with kisses and nips.

At first, Tony’s a little thrown by how asymmetrical Bruce’s ribs feel. Tony has had his hands and his lips on people’s ribcages before. He likes to pay the ribcage special attention during foreplay and sex because it’s such an important part of the body, keeps your heart and lungs all safe, and it gives a person such beautiful lines. He’s used to the smooth curves of the ribs, used to the way they naturally lead down toward a person’s core. But Bruce’s ribs...

Bruce’s ribs feel like they’ve been broken and rebroken and rebroken again. There are dips and bumps that don’t feel normal, and occasionally his lips or tongue will brush over skin that is risen or pulled tight in a scar. He has no idea how someone could get so mangled, and he feels a flash of concern before he glances up at Bruce’s face. He’s flushed from his hairline right down to his chest, his mouth at first is open and slack jawed, but then he catches his bottom lip between his teeth and huffs through his nose when Tony bites down on his hip. He’s so beautiful like this, and it’s authentic in a way that Tony’s never been exposed to. Tony has always been a talker in bed, and sex has always been more of a performance art, a show, than anything else, so he catches himself completely off guard when, “You’re perfect,” tumbles reverently from his lips. Because he means it.

The frenzy that was missing in their actions before is starting to seep out of Bruce’s pores, and the smaller man wiggles away from Tony enough to slip out of his pants before pushing Tony up by the shoulder and reaching for the buttons of his jeans with clumsy, eager fingers. When they’re both finally free of pants, left in only their briefs, they’re glued together again. Tony’s hands explore and caress Bruce’s legs, and now that he’s aware of them, he discovers even more scars along the backs of Bruce’s thighs and calves. He maneuvers a hand up under Bruce’s back, and he feels even more scars on the skin there. Bruce’s body is littered with them, and Tony can’t fathom why, but somehow he feels like they’re just as beautiful and perfect as Bruce is.

“Tony, Tony God closer. Closer, please, I need-,” Bruce’s voice is nothing more than a whisper, occasionally bleeding into a whine. His hands are grasping, pulling, clutching. Every reaction to Tony’s touch is a tremble, a twitch, and it’s almost like he’s never been touched like this before. It’s an exciting prospect for Tony, but at the same time it makes him feel really uneasy. Bruce had a girlfriend up until this point, the touches of foreplay shouldn’t be new to him.

Bruce tugs almost a little too hard on his hair, and that’s when Tony caves and gives him what he wants, slithering back up Bruce’s body and kissing him breathless. Then he dips his head and latches on to the sensitive skin just under Bruce’s jaw, sucking there brutally for a moment before speaking. “I want you so bad. You’re gorgeous like this, you know that? Gonna make you feel so good, Babe.” Bruce pulls Tony closer by his hips, rolls their pelvises together and groans desperately. Tony almost laughs, but it’s choked with desire. “Condoms. Lube. Where?”

But when Bruce groans this time, it’s definitely not meant to be sexy. His hips don’t stop rocking, but his eyes are distressed. He’s trying to sound composed, but his voice is absolutely wrecked. “You- you’re the one who came onto me. I thought you’d- I don’t have anything.”

Tony kisses him quiet, trying to ease the misery that’s beginning to form shadows across Bruce’s face. “Shh, it’s alright, we’ll make due. Relax, relax, it’s okay.” He’s grinding back down against Bruce for a beat before slipping a hand between them and pushing Bruce’s briefs down just enough to be able to get at his cock. Then he’s fumbling for his own and kissing Bruce again. When he takes both their pricks in his hand, Bruce’s inhale is sharp and he presses tight up against Tony, trying to mould their fronts together. “Shh, Bruce, I know. I know, but you gotta relax and give me some room.”

He shifts around, trying to find a way he can hold his weight up over Bruce in a way that will still allow him to touch the other man’s face without taking his other hand away from where it’s wrapped around the hard flesh between them. When he finally manages it, Bruce nuzzles his face into the palm of Tony’s hand, catches the thumb resting on his lower lip and sucking it gently into his mouth. He lets his torso relax and his head fall back against the mattress, and that gives Tony the room he needs to stroke them slowly. Whenever he senses Bruce needs more contact he lets his fingers brush over Bruce’s cheekbone and the delicate skin by his eye, presses kisses into Bruce’s skin wherever he can reach. Bruce’s need to be as close as possible is both endearing and a little unsettling. He’s never been with someone before who went into almost a nervous panic if they couldn’t feel both of Tony’s hands, if they couldn’t kiss him during whatever they were doing. It makes Tony wonder about Bruce’s girlfriend, and his childhood, but he pushes those thoughts away as swiftly and forcefully as he can. With their faces so close together Tony is certain that Bruce will pick up on any hint of distraction or melancholy.

When Tony’s fist tightens around them and picks up speed, he finds once again that a leg has been tossed over his hip. Bruce has a hand in Tony’s hair again, and a hand over his shoulder and splayed between his shoulder blades. He’s rocking up into Tony’s fist, and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. He’s panting and pressing into Tony everywhere he can, chasing Tony’s hand whenever it shifts away from his cheek. And Tony loves it. He wants to spread Bruce’s legs and just sink right into him, but is too enthralled in watching Bruce’s face to lament the fact that he can’t too much.

Bruce’s orgasm seems to catch them both by surprise. His breath leaves him in a whoosh like he’d been punched in the gut and his whole body tenses up before completely melting back into the mattress. Tony’s about to ease up, and then Bruce is all around him. “Stroke me through it,” he whispers against the skin on Tony’s collar, “Come on, don’t stop. Come for me. Tony please, come for me. Tony, Tony, Jesus Tony-,”

And Tony can’t fight that voice. His hand speeds up and Bruce shudders and moans, no doubt sensitive, maybe overly so. The fingers in Tony’s hair tighten, and Bruce moans again, his head pressed back into the mattress and the lines of his throat stretched into a beautiful arc, and that’s all it takes to draw Tony over the edge. He comes hard between them with a groan, and Bruce is smiling softly up at him and rubbing his back, and he rests there for a moment before rolling onto his side and flopping down beside Bruce on the bed.   

He props himself up on his elbow and kisses Bruce long and soft, then brushes a few sweaty curls off his forehead. Bruce’s torso is covered in their combined ejaculate, and Tony can’t help but smile down at him. “Wanna shower with me?”

Bruce nuzzles his face against Tony’s hand, then pulls him in for another kiss. When they break for air he murmurs, “My showerhead doesn’t work.”

“A bath then,” Tony amends. He’s never really been a cuddler after sex, but Bruce obviously still feels the need to be as close as possible, and he wants to give Bruce that. He wants to give Bruce _everything_ , but he’s trying really hard not to think about it.

And if, once Tony gets Bruce into the tub and settles in behind him, he finds himself singing Your Body is a Wonderland under his breath while rubbing a soapy cloth over Bruce’s chest because apparently Tony suddenly actually really _does_ believe in romance, nobody has to know that except him and Bruce.

✧✧✧

Tony can’t stop thinking about the scars. He can’t stop thinking about the way Bruce’s hands trembled when Tony’s face was too far away from his own. Can’t stop thinking about how, now that it’s over, Bruce’s actions are all over the fucking place. They’re laying on the bed, clean and still damp from the bath, and Bruce is pressed right up against him but just as emotionally distant as he was when they were standing outside the cafe. He’s turned off the stereo, won’t look Tony in the eye, and hasn’t said a word since halfway through their bath.

He doesn’t want to leave, but maybe this is Bruce’s way of telling him to. He says, “I can go, if you want,” and Bruce still doesn’t say anything but his arms tighten around Tony’s hips and he shakes his head. Tony doesn’t know what to make of that, but he doesn’t move. “Okay,” he whispers into Bruce’s hair. “Okay, it’s okay.”

It takes a long time for Bruce to relax again, but he eventually does. He presses his face into the crook of Tony’s neck and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

At first Tony thinks he mishears, but after a moment of silence he’s pretty sure he didn’t. “Why?”

Bruce rolls away from him and looks up at the ceiling, his face blank except for the small smile he’s forcing his lips to twist into. It’s a shield, Tony knows that because he’d seen that exact expression on his mother’s face after Howard would disappear into the labs, and suddenly Tony wants to break something, or build something that will wipe those stupid shield smiles off of everybody’s faces forever. Bruce runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, that little smile never faltering. He says, “I know I’m not...,” he pauses, sort of shakes himself, and starts again. “You just seem like you do this sort of thing a lot. And you’re so charismatic and charming and attractive. I know I’m not anything like the guys you probably normally pick up. I know I’m not... You know, hot, or anything. And you’ve been really nice to me, and I haven’t been able to offer you anything. I don’t even have, like, pillows. So. Thanks, and I’m sorry.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a long time. His genius brain doesn’t even really know how to process that statement, really, because it’s just so _wrong_ , but eventually he just settles on, “Whoa.”

Bruce cocks an eyebrow but keeps his mouth shut.

“Whoa,” Tony reiterates, and then just keeps talking. “First off, thanks. I am pretty charismatic and charming and attractive, and thank you for pointing it out. My ego can always use the boost.” He grins his camera ready grin and Bruce almost laughs, but then Tony is talking again. “Second, what the fuck? You’re totally hot. Like whoa Buddy, but your face is fantastic and your chest hair is dope as shit, and your _legs_. Jesus, your legs man, seriously. And. You bought me nachos and let me listen to your music even though I kinda made fun of you and you shared your noodles with me even though you literally don’t have any food. And I don’t need a fuckin’ pillow when I was just gonna sleep on top of you anyway. So. Don’t. Just don’t.”

There’s still a shit tonne of insecurity and uncertainty in Bruce’s eyes, but he laughs anyway. It’s another shield, and Tony hates it, and he wants to never let Bruce use it ever again. And Tony, he can’t keep his mouth shut. Bruce rolls back against him, presses in tight, and Tony just can’t help himself. “I want to ask you a question, and it’s pretty personal, and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to, but I’m going to ask it. Okay?”

“Uh. Okay.”

“Okay. So. You and your girlfr-. You and that girl. You guys had sex, right?”

Bruce’s head jerks and suddenly he’s looking straight into Tony’s eyes. There’s confusion there, and he chews on his lips before answering slowly, “Yeah...,”

“Okay. That’s what I thought. I was just wondering. Because. You know. It felt like you weren’t used to having people touch you like that.”

“Well,” Bruce’s voice is small, and the lines in his face make him look tired as hell. “I’m sort of not. I mean, you were touching some kind of weird places.”

Tony is having a hard time processing that too, because he actually can’t think of anything kinky or out of the ordinary that he’d done with Bruce. “I was?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says decisively, but his eyes are searching Tony’s face and the insecurity is so obvious that it’s almost suffocating. “I mean, my ribs? And you were pawing at my back pretty good for a while there.”

And Tony actually sputters. “What the fuck kind of sex have _you_ been having? Ribs and backs are totally normal places to paw at!”

Bruce just kind of hmm’s, then lays his head down on Tony’s chest. “Oh. Well, Betty doesn’t like to.”

Tony really hates this Betty person. “Why? Everybody has ribs and a back.”

Bruce snorts. “Oh, come on. Tell me you didn’t notice that mine were fucked.”

“I did notice,” Tony admits defiantly, “and I wondered about it, but I didn’t give a shit. So your ribs aren’t like piano keys and it feels like someone took and cheese grater to your back. So what? You’re still hot as fuck and I’m still gonna fuckin’ touch you if we’re having sex. Your body is your body, and if she loved you she would have loved it too.” There’s a thick silence between them for a while, and then very quietly Tony murmurs, “Can I ask about it?”

Bruce shifts, nervous, like he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. Then he says, “I used to get beat up a lot.”

“At school?”

“At... Home.”

Tony feels like someone is standing on his chest. At home? He thinks back briefly to his own childhood, and to Howard. Howard had been a bastard; he’d been distant, and engrossed in the company, and drunk. He didn’t talk much, and when he did his words were dismissive and dispassionate. He didn’t know how to be anybody’s father, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to be anybody’s husband. But he had never laid a hand on Tony, had never gone out of his way to purposefully hurt him. Tony sits up, looks at Bruce seriously, and places his hand on him gently. “Can I...?”

Bruce stares for a moment, then rolls onto his stomach as if he could read Tony’s mind. His whole body is tense, and Tony hates it. He’d seen Bruce’s back in the tub, of course, but he’d been more focused on other things at the time. But now he doesn’t want to focus on anything else. His eyes rove over the marred skin, and then his hands follow, and he can only imagine the awful things that were done to make it like this. He thinks of books he’s read and movies he’s seen, of leather belts and wooden spoons, of little children being pushed down flights of stairs and assaulted with brooms and rolling pins. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and digs his thumbs into the tight muscles of Bruce’s lower back. “Your dad, did he-,”

“It’s okay,” Bruce says, then sighs when Tony’s ministrations actually begin to relax him. “I was taken into foster care when I was nine, and I moved in with my aunt when I was twelve. He was vicious, and my mom did the best she could, and I was only in the home for nine years. Some kids don’t get out until they’re eighteen. Some kids die there. I was-,” Bruce’s voice catches on the word _lucky_ , because he doesn’t really believe that he was, doesn’t really believe that it could have been any worse, but he tries.

Tony palms Bruce’s skin gently, almost reverently, and then begins to plant small, chaste kisses all over Bruce’s back. Bruce is quiet at first, but eventually begins to practically purr. And Tony is fuming, because what kind of asshole does this to his own fucking son, and what kind of shitty girlfriend do you have to have if she can’t even touch some scarred up skin. He decides now, suddenly, that it’s his job to make it up to Bruce, to worship Bruce’s back until Bruce believes that anyone that can’t handle the touch or the sight of it is practically committing a crime against him.

“You’re beautiful,” Tony whispers wetly against Bruce’s left shoulder blade. “And fuck everyone who can’t fuckin’ understand that.”  
 ****

✧✧✧

Bruce stares at the phone in his hand, then looks up and stares hard at the crack in the mirror, resolutely ignoring his reflection. Tony is asleep in the other room, his face mashed into the mattress and his arms and legs all splayed out all over the place. Bruce is grateful that the ringing of the phone hadn’t woken him, more grateful still that his raised voice as he spoke to Betty also hadn’t stirred him from his sleep.

She had been crying, and he had been so angry with her, with himself, that he had had to remind himself not to shout.

“Don’t bother coming back, you fucking coward,” she had spat at him when she’d called earlier. “I’m sorry Baby, please come home now,” she had sobbed while Bruce had fought the urge to hang up on her just a few minutes ago.

They were all pushing so hard for him to take his research to the military, for him to sign the contracts that everyone kept shoving in his face. He didn’t want to, really _did not want to_ , but Betty was thinking of money, and Aunt Susan was thinking of job security, and Doctor Selvig was thinking of all the people the science would reach, all the people that would see Bruce’s theories. But Bruce didn’t care about any of that, he just wanted to be able to keep learning and exploring and discovering things. He didn’t know why nobody could understand that.

“I can’t come home if you’re going to keep trying to direct my whole fuckin’ life, Betty,” he’d told her, and he’d been shaking. “I need to know you’ll let me decide things for myself, and I don’t know that, and I don’t know if I trust you enough to listen to you tell me that you will.”

“I _love_ you, Bruce, isn’t that enough? This isn’t about just you anymore, don’t you get that? We have to make decisions that will support us as a couple. We have to move forward thinking about what’s going to benefit both of us, not just in terms of you as an individual and me as an individual.”

“God, we’re not married. You know that, right? We’re not married.”

“I know that. But don’t you want to be, eventually? We need to work at being on the same page now so that when we’re ready to take that next step, we’re both _ready_. Don’t you think?”

And Bruce, he did think. He thought for a long time about that, thought about how he had already sacrificed so much for her, given up so much just because she asked him to. And he doesn’t _want_ to give in to her, because he always does, but he can’t help but think to himself, _what’s one more thing?_ So he had said, “Promise me. Promise me that you’ll let me think about everything. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to decide on it right now. Promise me that if I come home, you’ll let me think about those contracts for myself. You won’t push. Please.”

She had said, “I promise. Of course I promise. All you had to do was ask,” just like he knew that she would.

“I’ll see you soon,” he’d told her before hanging up.

And now here he was, standing in the bathroom and not even looking at himself because there had to be something _wrong_ with him, damnit, for him to keep giving in like this. But he just kept thinking, _in the grand scheme of things, what’s one more thing?_ and he was taking deep breaths to stave off the nausea. What was the point of making sacrifices if you were just going to throw it all away? He knew coming to LA had been stupid, rash, and Betty was right. He couldn’t afford to act like that anymore. It wasn’t about just him.

If he couldn’t help but think back to Tony’s voice saying, “She wasn’t looking out for you...,” and, “You’re beautiful...,” well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

✧✧✧

It's bright when Tony wakes. The room is quiet, and the sun is glaring right in his face. The blankets should have blocked it out and kept the sun from being a problem. That’s what they were there for. The blankets...

Tony’s whole body jerks until he's sitting upright on the mattress. He looks around, wide eyed and jaw dropped. Everything is gone. The boxes in the corner of the room, the blankets and everything else that had been hung in front of the windows, all the candles, everything. Gone. Bruce is nowhere to be found either, and that makes Tony’s breath catch in his throat. What the hell was going on?

His eyes don’t see the sticky note stuck to the speaker of the stereo until he has already been over the lack of everything else a few more times. Even the fucking mustard is gone. But the stereo is still there, and there's a sticky note on it.

The scrawl is lopsided, neat and tidy in a way Tony’d never been able to get his own. It said only, “I made another decision. I’m sorry.”

Tony laughs even though suddenly his throat is burning, and he quickly dresses himself. He grabs the CD out of the stereo tray at the last minute, and as he's going for the door he catches sight of a cell phone discarded in the corner by the door. Bruce must have dropped it on his way out. And then Tony thinks about Bruce’s stupid girlfriend, thinks about how Bruce was completely and totally wrapped around that bitch’s finger, and he can’t help but wonder. “Did you make another decision?” he muses, “Or did she?”

When Tony reaches the street, he pulls out his own phone and dials a number. “Hey, Obie? I’m in LA. Could you send me a car?”  

✧✧✧

“‘Cause we both know I’ll never be your lover

I only bring the heat...

Blow out all the candles.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Songs used in order of appearance:  
> Under You-Better Than Ezra  
> Round Here-Counting Crows  
> Youth-Daughter  
> With or Without You-U2  
> Stood a Chance-Taking Back Sunday  
> All the Way-Taking Back Sunday  
> Hallelujah-Leonard Cohen  
> Your Body is a Wonderland-John Mayer  
> Candles-Daughter


End file.
